words and music by Paul Spencer, 2002
There’s a rumour of conscription hanging round at number ten,
But no-one’s been on telly with the how and why and when,
Nonetheless I found I fretted, but only for a while,
And then I started thinking with a slightly crooked smile:
Come on then, conscript me, you’ll wish you never did,
I’m a can of worms be my guest take off the lid,
For war’s a game for powermongers, not for folks like me,
And if you force it on me watch how peaceful Ican be.
I’ll chat about the havoc war will wreak on people’s lives,
And I’ll ask who’ll tell their girlfriend about raping Muslim wives,
I’ll call it Gulf War Syndrome every time I have a cold,
And I’ll answer “Whose life is it?” when I don’t like what I’m told.
I’ll talk so much of bums that all the men will think I’m gay,
But even if you ask I won’t be certain either way,
I’ll never fail to squeak and jump each time the Sergeant yells,
And I’ll never learn to shoot a gun or launch a mortar shell.
I’ll rant about the biosphere and how we’re all just one,
And every morning my religion says I must salute the sun,
I’ll sew partches on my uniform of rainbows, doves and trees,
And I’ll skip instead of walking, and I’ll march with wobbly knees.